‘I’ll miss you,’ said Marnie. ‘I hope you’re so happy.’
‘And I shall miss you too, Marnie. Come down to London and see me. I’ll send you books. We will stay in touch.’
‘That’d be lovely.’
At the door Hilary embraced Marnie. Tightly.
‘Break the curse, Marnie. Be the first person to live out a long and happy life in the manor. Are you Lilian’s daughter?’
‘No,’ sighed Marnie. ‘Sadly.’
‘I’m glad, though,’ said Hilary. ‘Too much bad blood. I think a family curse might be the theme of my next Country Manors.’
And with that, Hilary walked out of Marnie’s cottage to the car park where an Aston Martin was waiting to zoom her away to her own new life.
*
The cottage felt like a hug after Hilary had gone. Something small and snug and tight around her that would keep her safe with its firm walls, low ceilings and uneven floors. Today there had been too much information, too many words, too many secrets blown open. But one stayed closed in her heart, folded like a bud that could never blossom for even Little Raspberries couldn’t protect her from the long, cold shadow of the past. Nor could Emelie’s fortune buy her a passage back in time to change the biggest mistake she ever made.
Chapter 48
It was three days before she saw Herv Gunnarsen again. Or anyone. She shut herself away in the cottage, not even bothering to get dressed, because she didn’t know what else to do. The manor was hers to live in, but the notion was unreal. She felt stupidly fragile and lost. As if she were standing at a signpost not knowing which way to go because the lettering had faded too much to guide her.
It was Fiona Abercrombie who put her back on the road to reason.
Marnie’s mobile rang and she pressed accept rather than decline by mistake. And then was too polite to hang up.
‘Marnieee.’ Fiona Abercrombie’s voice was at the top of the pleasant scale.
‘Mrs Abercrombie,’ Marnie replied, with flat politeness.
‘I’d like to offer you my congratulations. I hear you’re the new owner of Wychwell.’
Mrs Abercrombie’s voice had sugar overload. Marnie wasn’t taken in.
‘Thank you.’
‘I expect you’re wondering why I’m ringing.’
Marnie could make a stab at a guess if pushed.
‘I think I acted rather hastily,’ Mrs Abercrombie went on. ‘I was understandably cross when we last spoke but we can’t find a cheesecake maker in your league. How about we strike a new deal?’
Marnie could imagine her sitting at her desk, fixed grin on her face, pen hovering over her diary to make a date for negotiations. Well, she could work for it.
‘What sort of deal?’
‘Oh, one to your advantage, of course.’
‘Really?’ Interest crept into Marnie’s voice and Mrs Abercrombie leapt on it.
‘I can guarantee double the quantity I was taking from you before. And shall we say a pound more per cheesecake? I can stretch to one pound fifty if you are going to insist on driving me to a hard bargain.’ Tinkly laugh.
‘Hmm, let me think about that for a moment,’ replied Marnie. She fell silent for a three-second count. ‘No.’
More glockenspiely-type laughter from Mrs Abercrombie then, as though she thought Marnie must be joking.
‘I really mean no,’ said Marnie. ‘I know my cheesecakes are good enough to be marketed as mine, not masquerading as yours so no, I’m not dealing with you. Not after you cut me off like you did. I think Wychwell is the perfect place for a teashop and one that can sell my cheesecakes exclusively.’
Mrs Abercrombie tried to argue but Marnie disconnected the call mid-plea: ‘Oh, let’s not be too hasty, Marnie, I—’ No – for once, someone needed her more than she needed them. Actually, it had happened quite a bit in recent times. Caitlin, Justin and now Fiona fatarse. All it needed was for Gabrielle to turn up at her doorstep imploring that she needed a sister’s advice.
Mrs Abercrombie’s call made her think. Marnie had only said it to put the wind up the woman but there was no reason why she shouldn’t sell her own home-made fare in the teashop she had planned for the village. It could turn out to be the cheesecake capital of the North, the world, the universe. If Fiona Abercrombie and her sub-standard offerings could make it in the marketplace, why the hell shouldn’t she have a go?
And the matter of teashops brought her neatly round to the mystery of Margaret Kytson’s well. With an injection of much-needed energy, Marnie got showered and dressed and set off with a spring in her step towards the vicarage.
Lionel greeted her warmly and Marnie was a little sad that it had transpired that this wonderful man wasn’t her father after all.
‘Come in, come in,’ he said, ushering her into his lovely bright kitchen. ‘Can I get you a cup of something?’ There was a newspaper spread over the table.
‘Not disturbing you, am I?’ Marnie asked.
‘Absolutely not. I would rather have your company than read about doom and gloom any day. Milk? Sugar?’
‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’
‘When are you moving into the manor then?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Marnie, puffing out her cheeks. ‘It all seems too . . . dreamlike.’
‘You’ll get used to it very quickly, I’m sure. Lilian used to say that the house liked you,’ and Lionel smiled fondly. ‘She said that it wanted to be loved. And if it were, then it would give it all back.’
Lilian was bonkers though, she could have said, but she knew exactly what Lionel meant. She’d always felt welcomed there. Possibly by the ghost of the Pink Lady, who she now knew didn’t exist.
‘Didn’t Emelie want to live there at all?’
‘Not without Lilian. She told me that she went back a couple of times, in the night, hoping to feel Lilian’s presence there . . . but sadly, no.’
Marnie had known it was a real live person she’d seen that one time when she had run up to the manor hoping to catch the ghost before it walked through a wall. It was Emelie, retracing her familiar steps.
‘Lionel, I’ve come to ask you about Margaret Kytson and the well.’
The vicar sat down next to her and Marnie couldn’t work out if the resulting creak came from him or the chair.
‘Well, you can ask, my dear, but I have no new information.’
‘You may have, but not know it,’ said Marnie and Lionel’s head moved forward by interested degrees.
‘Oh? Do go on.’
‘Emelie said words to the effect that Lilian had been looking through the manor ledgers and had found something which made her think she was on to where the well might be, but she didn’t write it down and so she forgot it.’
‘As we all do,’ said Lionel. ‘Most annoying.’
‘Well, Lilian tried to refresh her memory by going back over them again but she couldn’t find it . . .’ she left an enticing pause ‘. . . I think that might have been because she found something that wasn’t there.’
Lionel waited for her to continue and when she didn’t, his brows dipped quizzically. ‘I’m not sure I’m with you.’